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My gluttony is certainly at war with my vanity and I don’t think my vanity has a fighting chance.

I started the year committed to be my best self and in every other facet of my life I have succeeded but as 30 approached I was, for the first time, very aware that I didn’t have the same body I once enjoyed. I could no longer eat and drink anything (and everything) I wanted. Well, I suppose I could. I missed my 20s body before I even turned 30.

I wanted my body back and I was very calculated. I meal planned: went grocery shopping, examined the nutrition facts, and cooked everything I ate (after measuring each ingredient and carefully following the recipes and weighing the portions) so that I would later be able to calculate the number of Weight Watchers points I had used.

I signed up for a condition and tone class at the gym with Gabrielle (everyone needs a gym partner) and was convinced by Allison (our instructor) to start spinning.

I left Boston 10 pounds lighter.

After 7 long hours I arrived in London and abandoned my routine (that I was very strict about). Damn. After all that work. I moved into a flat in South Kensington and shared the kitchen so I rarely wanted to cook dinner at home. While London is notorious for having bad food, I managed gain all the weight I had just lost.

Each morning started with a latte and a croissant. I loved sitting at a cafe reading while indulging on 2 things that were not a part my diet in the not so distant past.

I went to afternoon tea nearly every week with my roommate Whitney. This ritual had 3 courses: salmon sandwiches with cream cheese and rocket, scones with clotted cream and finally, cupcakes. And if that is not enough calorie intake, there is plenty of cream and sugar to be added to the tea. Not to mention champagne.

For dinner Whitney and I often dined on wine and cheese. Other nights we shared dinner for 2 from Marks & Spencer or went out to eat — we frequented the neighborhood Moroccan restaurant and enjoyed curry on Brick Lane.

The best of times (and the worst of times) were when we traveled. I ate and drank my way around Europe.

When I finally packed my bags and headed to Heathrow my luggage was not the only thing that was overweight. It was so easy to get out of my routine. How easy would it be to get back into it?

I started out strong. I went to spin class several times a week. I thought I would be back to my old self in no time. Nope.

I did not factor in that I wanted to date. I went on dates 4 nights a week some weeks. How is it possible that I didn’t even consider the impact of dating on my weight loss plan? It was almost impossible to calculate what I ate when I was scanning menus. So I threw in the towel. I couldn’t forgo the dates.

So here I am in 2012 thinking it is a new year and I need a new plan.

January goals:

Do a cleanse — a perfect way to kickstart the movement but its hard to motivate myself to juice for hours and carry 6 bottles of thick juice around for 3 days.

Join Weight Watchers — I know it works but it is much harder now that I am not living in isolation and can eat (and drink) with family, friends and dates.

Get back in the routine of going to the gym — damn, I was doing so well. I should get a trainer.

Let the games begin. When I said I wanted to be bigger, faster, stronger, better at 30 I didn’t literally mean bigger!

Watching the news I was astonished as I saw Tottenham, home to one of the largest and most significant populations of African-Caribbean people, in flames. The riot left the neighborhood in rubble.

After 11 weeks of “black” people telling me that the British are not as sensitive about race as Americans I want to ask: Is that your final answer? It can’t be. I came across these words in the newspaper: “Too many black men have been killed by the police. Too many black men and women have been treated like criminals when they’re not.” I knew this wasn’t specific to America. Despite the history, the racial environment here is more like the landscape at home than anyone is willing to admit but they are not fooling me. Why? If they were more honest with themselves, and me, we would better understand the unrest.

First I thought it was because Mark Duggan was shot. For years I thought the police department was only outfitted with handcuffs and batons. So how was he shot? Because some cops carry guns — like the ones that were involved in the pre-planned operation to carry out Duggan’s arrest.
The question was did Duggan shoot first. Hard to say. He was a “known gangster” but I was not surprised when the news reported that Duggan, though carrying a loaded gun, did not fire at the police before being shot 2 times and killed.

The real question I have been desperately seeking the answer to is why, in London, where no one admits that race matters, was there a riot after Duggan was killed? Three nights later London is under lockdown. The headlines in the newspaper and the commentary on television are dedicated to the riots (that have been compared to the riots in 1985) and we have been advised to stay home after dark because the riots are not limited to Tottenham. They are now taking place in neighborhoods all over the city and as I look at an infographic in the paper I cannot map where the rioters are headed next so I am resigned to my flat hoping the rioters do not come to South Kensington. Last night as I complained that I was a prisoner in my own home Whitney’s mom said, “Oh no – out of wine! Obviously you and Lola did not take that Brownie/Girl Scout oath to heart (a Girl Scout is always prepared). Daylight will soon be here.” Damn.

How many more nights will this last? With cops powerless against the teenagers that have taken over the city leaving us in a police state unable to leave our homes after dark? Today, the newspaper says the use of plastic bullets has been approved. Plastic bullets? How do the police plan to fight teenagers throwing car bombs, firecrackers and missiles? The cops at home know better. They will fight violence with violence. The police used tear gas and water hoses and dogs and nightsticks (and any other weapons at their disposal) on peaceful protesters during the Civil Rights Movement. I am glad these riots aren’t taking place at home because the police certainly wouldn’t be asking for approval to use plastic bullets if the streets were taken over by rioters 4 nights in a row.

At this point I think I know all I need to know about “black” people in London. And I am ready to go home to America, where everyone knows race matters. At least were prepared.

I am afraid I have to go home without the answers that I hoped for when I started asking about black people inLondon. But I think I know enough.

Last week I had drinks at CanaryWharf with Ian, a “black” man I sat next to on the plane from Geneva back toLondon. And eventually the conversation went to black people (of course, but this time I’m pretty sure I didn’t start the conversation). Ian said he didn’t understand why black Americans did not use their resources and go back toAfrica.

Africa? I asked. Like Marcus Garvey? Here we go.

I told him he has the luxury of knowing where he’s came from (Sierra Leone). He still has a homeland, history, culture, religion and a language rooted in that place. And I said I envy that (might not be the appropriate word) but I wish I had a connection -because of institutionalized slavery our history and culture is within the context of the history of America.

His response was I can go to Africa and I’d be welcomed. Fine. He didn’t understand what I just said.

I explained that while I am concerned about things that are happening in other countries I am most sensitive to issues related to black people (not in quotes). For example, there are more black men in prison than in college. He asked me what the percentage was. Percentage? More. I just said more in prison than college. He said because I didn’t have a statistic it was just my opinion. My opinion! How could that be my opinion? He told me Americans are just hung up on race.

Next he told me to genetically trace my roots. He (falsly) cited a statistic that 80% of African American men can trace their roots straight to Africa, meaning they are not mixed with other races (he was trying challenge that I consider myself to be African Slave – White Master). When I asked why he thought I looked the way I do he told me I belong to a tribe of people that look like me that were brought to America as slaves. Now this was getting ridiculous. He’s lucky I don’t have an iPad because I would have Googled his false facts. But of course I did when I got home. After reading the article about people tracing their roots and 80% finding that they have direct links to Africa I sent it back to him and pointed out that this research was about British African-Caribbeans.

The conversation grew louder and Ian interupted and said: everyone in here probably thinks were having a break up. Well if we were dating we would be!

What I learned from this exchange: I need to date a black man (not in quotes) or a white man that wouldn’t even begin to argue that he knows about being black inAmerica.

As I navigate through London I am making learning how to speak English. You would think when you come to London there would no language barrier but that’s just not the case. I find myself asking people to repeat themselves or even spell out the word they are trying to say because I just can’t understand. Accent aside, there are words for things you never knew had could be described as something else.

But I am used to asking where the toilet is (which seems a bit crass).

I now ask for chips when I mean fries and crisps when I mean chips. I was only baffled when both fries and chips were on a menu. And when I asked for clarity the waiter told me, “You’re American. They’re like McDonald’s.”

They dont have oatmeal here. I looked, trying to wean myself off crossiants, and all I could find is porridge. It actually tastes the same but it makes me think of Golidlocks and the 3 bears.

I explain that I want take away when I want my order to go. And I put all of my items in the trolley at the store (don’t they have trolleys in San Francisco?) and pay for it at the till.

You can hire anything here: a car, a chair, even a towel. You can’t rent. You can’t even rent an apartment. You have to let a flat.

I am used to the announcement to mind the gap between the train and the platform and know it means watch your step. But what sounds silly to me every time I hear it is “alight here.“

Some other things I just can’t get used to:

1. I don’t understand the word “nought.” Apparently it’s another word for zero. Why can’t just use zero? I don’t think I’m going to start saying nought point five.

2. And “full stop” instead of period. Maybe I should incorporate that into my vocabulary. Not for grammar. I won’t say comma, full stop, exclamation point but maybe I could say, “I’m not going to dinner with him, full stop.” Ok. No. That doesn’t work either.

3. So I understand saying half six when you mean 6:30. It’s pretty close to half past six. I guess.

4. Here I have to put my appointments in my diary rather than my calendar. And all this time I thought a diary was a book filled with pages with boys initials inside a heart with mine kept under lock and key. Silly me.

5. Why say nice when you mean good. Can you really ever call a peice of steak nice?

6. I will never understand when people say “It’s alright” or “It’s ok” after I say thank you. If I say thank you say you’re welcome! If you’re going to just keep saying it’s ok why do I keep saying thank you? Well, because that would be rude.

A few other things I just get a kick out of:

Bloody

To take a piss means you’re pulling someone’s leg. Not to be confused with:

Pissed, which means drunk, not angry. And careful not to get caught drink driving. I have said it over and over in my head to see who’s right – drink driving vs. drunk driving and drink driving sounds a bit off every time.

And how could I forget:

A man overheard me talking on the train and said he thinks it’s funny American papers say burglarize when they could just say burgle. Say burgle a few times. It will make you laugh. Promise.

London has managed to maintain a lot of its charm while boasting its status as England’s largest city. It is almost impossible to compare this metropolis to New York but as many similarities I find there are as many, if not more, differences. But the most startling is the black people. Whenever I see a black person I’m baffled by how much they look like me but how little they identify with me.

I’ve subjected my friend Whitney (who I also call White Cloud) to my frustrations as I try to figure out the deal with black people abroad. It comes up most often in London because it is my home base, but I have wondered in Geneva and Berlin, “how did they get here?”

How did they? Not as part of the transatlantic slave trade. So did they come by choice? They know where they came from. So they can go back, even if they don’t want to. But where can I go? Back to Africa with Marcus Garvey. That would be about my only option.

I’m so fascinated by black people abroad. I talk to them about their experience as black people in whatever city I am in whenever I have a chance. It didn’t take long for me to ask Francis about being black in England and he quickly replied, “were just like black people in America, we listen to hip hop.” Well there you have it.

When I was talking to my new coworkers over tea I said I’m flirting with the idea of staying in London but I really want to get a sense of the relationship between black and white people and, more importantly, how white people percieve black people before I change my status from visitor to resident. And they looked at me with blank faces. I tried to explain America’s unique history and how it impacts perceptions of race and they looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language and then one answered, “Here we don’t even think about race. We all get on fine.”

Get on fine? Get on fine. Stop it. I went back to my desk with my tea and thought there are really only 2 explanations for her response:

She doesn’t have relationships with black people or, if she does, the relationships she does have are not developed enough to allow for conversations about race.

She just doesn’t care. She’s not bothering black people and black people aren’t bothering her. They don’t live where she lives or work where she works so she doesn’t have to think about race.

Well that conversation left me even more confused. Black people don’t want to talk about black people, white people don’t want to talk about black people. Damn. I need Michael Moore to come out here because he’s so obnoxious (more obnoxious than me at least) and has no problem asking the tough questions.

I’m just so frustrated and I finally get to Boots (drug store) to pick up 3 oz. bottles for Whitney before we leave for Barcelona and the woman at the till (the register) asked if I was going back to America. I told her I am headed to Barcelona and before you know it I told her I am absolutely desperate to know about black people here and she said, “I will tell you everything!” Well, I wish I had more time but the queue (the line) was getting longer and longer but this is what I got from the conversation:

Black people came from countries in Africa and the Caribbean in the 1950s to help repair the city after the second world war.

Black people live in migrant communities (and if I really want to get to know black people in London I need to go to their neighborhoods).

And black people don’t get on with white people as well as everyone else would like to have me believe.

Even the other black man in the store tried to convince me everyone lived harmoniously.

What is England’s dirty little secret? There has to be more than the (little) bit I know that explains black people’s place in society in England. They didn’t have the same institution of slavery or the great migration or the civil rights movement. We all know what it was like in America. But what was happening here?

I have so many questions. I am determined to know more when I leave this place than when I came. I can’t go home not knowing how my black brothers and sisters are faring on the other side of the pond.

Maybe. But for how long? A man will only take no for an answer for so long. And then he will undoubtedly ask someone likely to say yes. Then what? We’re left saying damn, he could have been mine. But if we were bound to be upset when someone else says yes why didn’t we just say yes long ago?

We think he will always be there, waiting.

We don’t believe his other relationships are serious and that if we decide we want to be with him he will make himself available.

We don’t want to settle.

No matter how many boxes we can check off with him he’s not the one.

Then why do we care when someone snatches him up:

Because we’re still alone. And it was more fun being alone together.

Lesson: treat relationships like everything else in life worth having – if you want it, go for it. If you don’t, don’t waste time thinking/talking about it when you could be figuring out how to get what you actually want.

While we anxiously awaited entrance into Wembly to see the England vs. Switzerland game the fans in front of us believed it to be their civic duty to get the rest of the fans in queue excited for the game.

Harrods is absolutely incredible. As a little girl I was always fascinated by lights and in the evening Harrods is lit up like a Christmas tree, attracting the little girl in me. I marveled the enormity of it and when I thought of how to make this gloomy day a bit brighter I immediately thought of Harrods and having afternoon tea there.

Afternoon tea is a ritual that I take quite seriously. After the best experience at Fortnum & Mason I felt a bit guilty about having tea elsewhere but then acquiesced. Afterall, how will I know what tea I like if I do not try them all?

After making our way through the maze of department at Harrods, Whitney and I found ourselves on the fourth floor at the Georgian. While I am sure it was once spectacular it is now just stodgy. We were seated at a round table for 4 and I couldn’t help but notice the chairs were mauve. Yes, mauve. When I was little the halls on the first floor of our house were mauve. As were the sofa and love seat in the family room. And the chairs in the dining room. Damn, looking back, we had a lot of mauve. But that was in the 80s and it has all been replaced and I suggest that Harrods takes a cue from my mother who is always changing to keep her space fresh. To go along with the decor was a piano that was playing itself at the reception area. When I looked over and noticed the keys playing themselves I saw a digital screen with the words “The Godfather” scrolling across. Wonderful.

When I saw a server walk by with miniature cakes and tarts I thought to myself, “We should have went to Fortnum & Mason.” Ok, not to myself. I said it out loud and I meant it. When our server finally graced us with our presence I thought, “Damn, I miss Enrique.” Our server (who Whitney refused to take a photo of) quickly offered us the Harrods Afternoon Tea. I should have questioned why she was so quick to offer it but I accepted it and waited patiently for my tea. Now, if youv’e been to Fortnum & Mason you would be appalled when you saw the tea pot they brought to our table. It came along with milk (which was so cold it was impossible to keep the tea warm) and sugar cubes. As I sat drinking my lukewarm tea I thought about the table setting at Fortnum & Mason. What’s missing? The tea strainer. Wait. Where is it? I kept sipping but then realized why there were no strainers. “I think this is tea bag tea!” I belted out. When Whitney peeked into the pot she confirmed my suspicion. Her face had indignation written all over it. And I wondered were we served Lipton at Harrods?

I couldn’t even begin to eat the “freshly cut sandwiches” from the descriptions I realized why they say English has bad food. None it it sounded appealing. Well, there is always the “home-baked English scones” with clotted cream and the rose petal jelly sounded divine. But really it was just tolerable and the only thing I could stomach. After months on Weight Watchers I decided to spare myself from unnecessary points, to not eat for the sake of eating. As I told Whitney, this is not Eat, Pray, Love. If it looked delicious I would have gladly partaken in the ritual. That’s what tea is after all. A ritual that should be preserved but Harrods managed to make a mockery of it. And for that, shame on you Harrods.

As we sat there no longer even trying to enjoy the meal I started counting the ways Harrods failed us. And I desperately wanted to tell someone. I saw a very official man across the room and when I got his attention he sauntered over and said something like, “I know I am handsome but you could have asked your server for help.” What server? We haven’t seen her since she offered us tea bag tea! “Look in this pot” I demaded as I motioned him towards the tea pot. “What do you see? Tea bags!” Whitney, who was embarrassed at my outburst said, “we are just curious why Harrods would chose to serve tea bags rather than loose tea” and he answered by explaining that they had been suggesting that Harrods do away with the tea bags for quite some time but the battle has not yet been won.

Knowing that I (because Whitney hid her disgust well) was disappointd he offered us some champagne. When he walked away Whitney said, “almost everything could be solved with a complimentary glass of champagne. But not this.”

How dare they call this proper tea? But what is proper tea? I think its worth investigating. Because what we were served this afternoon certainly was not proper.

See you on Friday, Enrique. We shouldn’t have strayed. As I told Whitney, this is what happens when you cheat.

Well this is certainly not Eat, Pray, Love. I started the morning with a brisk walk up Kensington High Street towards Club Kensington, the neighborhood gym. I left early enough to be there in time for Legs, Bums and Tums.

This is how the class is described:

Targeting the lower body muscles, this class will help tone and reshape thighs, tighten buttocks and firm abdominal muscles.

Why did I read mat class in the description? When the instructor walked in he looked like the Incredible Hulk, just not green but equally muscular on top.

I instantly thought, “What did I just get myself into?” And I knew I was doomed when I heard Michael Jackson blaring from the speakers at a pitch that only dogs should be able to hear.

Apparently the best way to target legs, bums and tums is through step aerobics. Damn. The women in the class must be regulars because they are moving through the routine seamlessly and I am hopping up and down on the step trying to catch up. Useless. At some point I just started laughing. It is absolutely hilarious that I found myself in this aerobics class with the instructor walking around singing, “I kissed a girl and I liked it.”

I was relieved after 35 minutes when we changed the pace and finally got a mat and started toning. After 25 minutes I was glad to lay on my back and listen to Kenny G. 60 minutes later I was so glad class was over but I am thinking about returning next week.

My best friend Tara said I verbally blog every day, so I might as well write it down. So I’m writing it down. I am on the journey to be my best self. Read here to take the journey with me. There will be a few bumps along the way ... Continue reading →